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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 1 year

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Mr. Winter Chill Out | Yandere Winter Spirit OC x Reader

You fixed your blazer adjusting it to your comfort, pulling up your gloves, adjusting your hat, and tightening the scarf around your neck. All bundled up you grabbed your previously packed backpack before heading outside your home being sure to lock up in advance.

“(Y/n) I see you're about to make the journey! I was wondering, something about your mission.”

You rolled your eyes not caring whether it was hidden by your protective gear. You turned around briefly to meet the eyes of the ambassador for the season of Summer, before continuing to walk. The mystical man of Summer was pleasant enough but his ambassador was a different story. She was condescending, nosy, and a geniune buzzkill during the peace conferences. She ran up beside you with an unfamiliar air of excitement around her.

“Since you are going to retrieve Winter you don’t have to house him, knowing that you’re such a recluse. I wouldn’t mind letting him stay at my place when you bring him back.”

“No Finx, you already have Summer at your house anyway. Besides you know as well as I do that it's a decision that he has to make for himself and until he does that he’ll stay with the one who guides him.”

You didn’t feel like explaining this to her especially with time being your worst enemy for your journey. Not to mention as someone who already was housing an avatar she shouldn’t have needed you to explain it.

“I know. I know. But plleeaassee?Just for me? I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”

“No Finx.”

Her face immediately changed from her pleading attempted puppy dog eyes to twisted and angry scowl as she sucked her teeth.

“Fine! Don’t expect me to help you when you need it!”

She stormed off much to your pleasure as you began to make your way to the ice forest. You began your voyage following the compass you were given. After hours of trekking in the snow and an oncoming blizzard you decided to set a tent up. Turning on your battery powered lantern and scanning your map you found that it would take another day’s worth of traveling before you would begin to step foot on Winter’s domain. You ate your packed food, before calling it a night bundling up in your blankets and turning out your light.

You awoke to silence. A strange occurrence in the Winter forest as you had fallen asleep at the height of a blizzard that shouldn’t have ended by the time you awoke. Posthaste you unzipped your tent cautiously poking your head out to survey the scene. Feeling as though you were transported to another realm you found that the blowing snow in the hair seemed to stop. With snow loating in place, you were able to wave your hand out to grasp at the static snowflakes. Gasping in wonder at the oddly bright glow that had settled over the clearing of your campsite.

“Are you my human?”

A deep voice calls out to you immediately, having you whipping your head toward the man you just realized was here. The man was wearing a mask that only had slits for the eyes and an intimidating pattern of deep blues and silver. In a matching saddle and helmet the man was a polar bear that he was on top of. The man was wearing an elegant metal outfit similar to a slim version of a samurai’s war attire. It added to the mystery and slight fear you felt upon reconizing this as Winter himself. You held your blanket to you and sat straight as possible.

“Yes, I think so.”

At your response he seemed to freeze, making you wonder if you had done something wrong. Your questions dissipated as the masked man stepped off the polar bear to stand directly above you and your tent.

“Come with me. I can offer you a more…suitable place to stay.”

You couldn’t help but stay looking towards him in confusion, silently debating how to do this without being awkward. Apparently you had taken too long to answer and the masked man bent down to pull at your hand towards his polar bear. You pulled away only to get your shoes back on and secure your blanket on your shoulder, still with the armored avatar tightly clutching your hand. Bothered by your deliberation he fully scooped you up blanket and all before carrying you to his polar bear. Holding your form against his with one arm and the other guiding the bear.

“My sprites will retrieve those things.”

He left it at that and leaned against his chest as he rode quickly through the forest. You might have fallen asleep if it weren’t for the constant whips of cold wind smacking against your face. You perked up when the riding got slower and the surroundings of the forest transitioned into an icy garden opening into the courtyard of an icey castle. You awed at the familiar static snow surrounding the place as the grand doors opened. It was almost like a fairytale. Riding past various ice sprites and snow golems who bowed at the rider you were leaning against. Finally stopping within the doorway of the castle the masked man stepped off the polar bear and before you could do the same he scooped you up and carried you effortlessly throughout the interior. Passing by intricate architecture of ice and silver, he brought you into a bedroom with a large bed that looked oddly cozy for a winter domain. He set you on the bed pulling the covers over the ones you already had silently goading you to get comfy before casually waving his hand behind him. In seconds a chair made of ice formed underneath him and he scooched closer to you as you found yourself nuzzling against the fur pillows.

“Are you warm?”

You nodded your head.

“Do you know who I am?”

You nodded once again.

“Are you (Y/n)?”

You nodded enthusiastically as you flashed a smile at the confirmation of your pen-pal. He seemed to stare at you as well before reaching for his mask. Pulling it off of his face revealed a man with dark skin, periwhinkle eyelashes, and eyes a light-blue nearly matching the whites of his eyes. You hid your face with the covers as though he could see the heat burning at your cheeks.

“I am Winter. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m happy to meet you too.”

“Perhaps you’d be willing to stay for the time that would have taken you to get here on your own. We can…get to know each other, if you’d like?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

________________________________________________

For the next two days, Winter and you got to talk rekindling your friendship you had maintained by letter. He showed you his way of life as the avatar of Winter, introducing you to his winter sprites and his polar bear named Azucar. You briefed him about your world and the environment of the peace meetings; accidentallly ranting about the cons and pros that you dealt with as his ambassador. Whenever he tried to apologize you dismissed him, assuring him it wasn’t his fault in the slightest and that you were just happy to do it with him. Reluctantly you packed your bag, joining Winter as he prepared to ride Azucar. Dawned in the intimidating armor you had met him in, you held his waist as he rode into the town you had left just days before.

Arriving at the entrance of the town as expected the avatars of Spring, Summer, and Fall were all there. Dressed in their ceremonial robes and their ambassadors in matching attire; it exuded an energy of a guarded welcome. As you had expected. Unmounting Azucar with Winter following closely beside you greeted them on his behalf before excusing yourself to go back to your home. With Azucar in tow you two began to make your way to your abode only for Summer–more like Fitz coming to speak to you.

“Hi (Y/n)! Wow you guys are matching just like us! That is so cute.”

Same as last time you didn’t stop. Continuing to walk, letting Fitz and in turn Summer follow behind you as you quickly tried to make your way back home.

“H-hey! I know you and I didn’t leave on a positive note but I want to patch things up with you! Y’know with your new friend I have yet to meet, we should try to be on friendly terms.”

She let her eyes wander to the still masked Winter who seemingly was focused on soothing Azucar. It was then you knew it was him she was after and you rolled your eyes before looking at the Winter Avatar in question. He bent down whispering into your ear so quietly he could not be heard by even Fitz who attempted to hear by leaning closer. Finally snapping to his full height you delivered his message with a smile.

“The avatar Winter would like for you to know, ambassador of Summer, that he has no intention of getting to know you currently. Summer on the other hand he wouldn’t mind getting to know you in the future. Now if you’ll excuse us.”

You unlocked the door to your home letting Winter duck inside while Azucar squeezed in himself. You gave a polite bow to the beaming Summer and the suspicious-looking Fitz, closing the door before sighing as you slid against. Finally taking off his mask you could see the sheer displeasure on the avatar’s face.

“You perfectly predicted her goals are you truly a fortune teller or is she easily as shallow as a human can get?”

You chuckled recognizing that this was Winter’s sense of humor and instead tried to shift focus to how exhausting it was to interact with all of them. Which he agreed with wholeheartedly. You both pet Azucar as you mulled over the itinerary and genuinely planned with how quickly you could remove yourselves without showing a lack of decorum.

“If we’re not too tired when we get back, do you want to do a movie night?”

“I don’t need rest like you but if you are up for it, I’d greatly appreciate this.”

You smiled at him as you once again would hear his seemingly detached cadence express the excitement he was feeling deep down. Through your various letters to one another you found at heart he was a truly animated man that preferred his alone time but physically he often came across as cold–no pun intended. He’d often warned that he was very different in person and that you may not want to ambassador him once you saw him.

“Winter, the only reason I hesitated when I met you was because you looked so cool in your official attire. Not to mention your drop-dead gorgeous.”

Once you assured him neither you nor him would die because of his beauty he delighted in your comfort. You felt for him deeper than many of your other ambassadors could have hoped to brag about as some were borderline highly sexual to obviously strained you related to Winter. You like Winter. Maybe even love if he ever proposed it. Despite being the season often associated with negativity he was perhaps the most positive aspect of your life so far. As much as you hated to admit Fitz wasn’t wrong about you being a recluse; given your experiences it would make sense why you’d reject the outside world.

The town +you were stuck in+ you lived in had become the foreground to a movement of humans attempting to reach out to mystical beings in hopes of mending relationships from past incidents. The place you lived in had become the star child for this operation as the first-born of the emperor practically put the place on lockdown in the meantime. The funds to leave were insurmountable and could only be achieved with an extended period being paid on a government worker’s salary. When you first were given the job of the ambassador you made your situation quite clear, figuring no one could fault you if it didn’t work out with the outlier avatar anyway. He understood your situation and only ask that you indulge in him as someone who too did not think fondly of your own government system. To say you were happy all your mail was delivered by an armored snow owl with no possible chance at anyone other than you two reading it was an understatement. From there it was history as you both delighted in one another’s interests and had become quite close. Even without your letters in between you both still related to one another and we’re as thick as thieves.

Even as you once again spoke for him at the celebratory dinner your bond was doing just fine being unspoken as you prepared him and your plates. As it was predicted by you and him the avatars still huddled around one another whispering all the while as the festivities commenced. The only one who dared to step away from the huddle was Summer, oddly enough unaccompanied by Fitz.

“Well hi there you too! I’m so happy you decided to come! I bet it’s even more uncomfy when all the people you’re supposed to know are just talkin’ about ya!”

Despite his boisterous personality he seemed quite friendly, even garnering Winter’s favor in general. Through you he seemed to maintain a conversation that included all three of you and it made the stifling whispers much more bearable. Unable to sate your curiosity you asked the question no one really wanted to answer.

“So uh where’s your ambassador, isn’t she a fan of events like these?”

“Well she’s been feeling a little under the weather lately..so yeah.”

He scratched at the back of his head, you figured there was more going on but you didn’t question it. You guessed she might have felt so embarrassed by Winter’s flat-out rejection but even feeling embarrassment for anything sounded so out of character. You pushed the thought away only hoping she doesn’t do any real damage.

Retreating back to your home you began preparing the bedding situation for Winter and Azucar while they ‘played’ before retiring for the night. He spoke fondly of the event as you both settled on your couch to watch the movies you picked for the night. As it would happen you would fall asleep on his chest long before you were actually able to make it into bed. Pulling his dark lips into a smile, Winter scooped you up and carried you to bed. Tempted to create another ice chair but he knew it wouldn’t uphold like it would back in his home instead he decided to shed his clothes and lay beside you. Just because he was the Avatar of Winter didn’t mean he was always freezing cold. Cuddling up beside your warm human body he was able to relax for a little while. Until he felt the weight of a person over his lower section.

“I need you, Winter. Please help me.”

The pleading stopped the mock sleep he was enjoying as he opened his eyes to stare at the offender.

“Isn’t this an extreme breach of privacy? I doubt you have permission from (Y/n) anyway.”

“I-i know we’ve only just met but I really need you! N-not to mention this will help (Y/n) in the long run.”

The use of your name grabbed his attention.

“I’m listening.”

Winter followed the trespassing intruder as they got off of him following them past the sleeping Azucar into the sleeping town. With the lamps shining on the empty streets and the used party popper confetti along the curbs.

The intruder led Winter by his hand through the winding streets and buildings. Eventually stopping at an unfamiliar residence both went to the side of the building where a filled bag was sitting. He was given gloves, scrubs for his feet, and a tie for a net for his hair. Winter wasn’t sure what he looked like but if it was anything like his partner then he’s sure he looks ridiculous.

“Oh don’t look at me like that! We need this!”

Guiding him to the already damaged back door of the building from there they maneveured through clutter and trash. Winter refused the urge to comment on the state of the house and instead blindly followed them to a bedroom. Finally entering the room he could barely recall the name of the person bound and crying on the bed.

“Fitz. Was it?”

All he got in return were muffled yells from behind a makeshift gag. Feeling especially peeved he turned to Summer who’s eyes gleamed in a peach hue as the other season once again flashed that same smile he showed at the earlier festival.

“There’s only one way we can get rid of them without it being clear what exactly our weapon of choice is…”

“Icicles, I'm aware. But they would need to melt long enough before the body is found.”

Summer smirked, holding his hand up that emanated a peachy glow with heat waves emanating visibly.

“Not an issue.”

“Then your alibi. Where will you have been during the time of death?”

“Your place. We had a fight that I’ve already texted that emperor’s spawn about hiding at your place so we’re good. On top of that…”

He pulled out a spray can making a symbol that had been the topic of discussion as the emperor made the declaration that humans were reconnecting with the avatar’s of the seasons.

“The Columns of the Equinox? That cult has been dead for over a century.”

“Supposedly but it wouldn’t be bizarre that they come back when their idols do.”

Winter let out an exasperated sigh before conjuring a pile of icicles.

“Clever. I have no objections then.”

With a giddy smile Summer wasted no time beginning to monologue as he stabbed the icicle into the squirming ambassador. Winter on the otherhand watched the scene without remorse actually letting his thoughts drift to you. After all you were the only reason he’d ever want Fritz to die otherwise he couldn’t care less.

He knew about your financial situation, using his shapeshifting form to surveil everything up to the Emperor’s son petitioning to invite him to your first steps toward his forest. He’d like to think that he wasn’t immediately enamored with you. That he wasn’t already making ice sculptures of your body all throughout his castle at the first letter that you sent. While he wasn’t one to be shallow enough to cling to the first human who made an effort to speak to him he did know fate when he saw it. (Y/n) is his destiny. A destiny that would serve to be strengthened through Fitz’s extermination.

Thinking back to the moment you first laid eyes on him, he had a hard time actually speaking to you. For the first time the eyes he had hoped to finally look at were looking right back at him. On your face was a look of awe and it made your first meeting all the better. Holding your bundled body on Azucar was even better; it only solidified the strange sensation of a furnace in his soul. Placing you in his bed moreover it was absolutely surreal and when he finally bid you the night he refused to leave. He also vowed to no longer leave you unattended, even if this whole attempt for peace was sullied he wouldn’t be leaving you. (Y/n) (L/n) belonged to Winter and anyone who contested it would no doubt end up like Fitz.

“All done, Winter!”

“Good I’m more than certain this costume was entirely unnessecary.”

“Geez I just wanted to be sure just hand it over and I’ll burn it so that way we can head back to your snowflake’s house.”

“..Yes...my Snowflake.”

#yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere winter #Winter Yandere #yandere x you #yanderexrea #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere #yanderes #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc Winter #Yandere Spirit #Yandere oc #Yandere Christmas #Yandere Father Winter #Yandere x reader

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brittle-doughie · 9 months

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Top 10 most obsessive/possessive Cookies in your opinion, go! (excluding White Lily because she would be at the top lmao)

Bro, you did WL dirty lmao.

10. The Tears of the Ocean - Sea Fairy Cookie

While not as easy to aggravate compared to the other Y/N Cookie club members, Sea Fairy is still a legendary and can easily sweep away competition if she chooses to. Fire Spirit is the only cookie she’ll be quick to get aggressive with.

9. Loyal Until the End - Caramel Arrow Cookie

Being a watcher meant Caramel Arrow couldn’t bring herself to harm others so easily, she’s instead incredibly protective of you and WILL draw her bow at threats. Laying a hand on you is a sure fire way to catch a arrow from her. Affogato Cookie is on-sight.

8. Protective Judgement - Dark Cacao Cookie

Like Watcher, like king. Dark Cacao will always have you by his side, he insists. There was something about you that he held dear, something that he needed to protect. He won’t tolerate any mistreatment from you, it’s a quick punishment for the perpetrator. You have your own spot in his quarters, it was a more preferable option to him then having your own room.

7. The Persistent Priestess - Pomegranate Cookie

Pomegranate Cookie’s secondary objective is you, to bring you into the darkness. Your soul was nothing she’s seen before, it was pure, it…was precious. She’ll curse any cookie that gets in her way of having you on the same side, she’ll take anything from you that she can get, with or without your knowledge.

6. The Dancing Danger - Lilac Cookie

Do not be surprised if the cookies you know start falling ill, it may be a sign that Lilac Cookie is watching. He’ll always say it’s for your protection, you never know when these cookies might turn on you, he’s just dealing with a problem before it becomes one. He’s only making them sick, it’s not like he’s straight up crumbling them….yet.

5. The Alluring Beauty - Kumiho Cookie

Normal: Not really being affected by her charms made you a breath of fresh air to Kumiho Cookie, she took a major interest in you with this fact and will try whatever she can to get your attention. Just don’t mind the cookies around you missing their cookie livers, it just meant they were getting too close to you. :)

Heartbreak Route: Kumiho is much more persistent, she had never felt true love until you had been honest with her that day. It aches her heart to know that she passed on your feelings, believing it was because of her charms. She’s more volatile like this, taking any interaction you have with others as potential threats to her goal. Has particular dislike for Blueberry Pie Cookie.

4. Your Best Pal - Croissant Cookie

She has stuck by your side since your first day at the TBD. Croissant Cookie was so happy to see you earn your honors as a handycookie, it meant that you two could spend time together as you fixed things alongside her engineering prowess. It…really blinded her to the fact that other cookies like Coffee Candy or Baguette Cookie had taken a liking to you too, something that she aims to fix by being your best and ONLY pal. Keeps you away from Timekeeper Cookie for obvious reasons.

3. His Only - Fire Spirit Cookie

Fire Spirit Cookie has butted heads with Wind Archer and Sea Fairy Cookie when it comes to you, he needed you more then they did. Fire Spirit..isn’t exactly that popular with other cookies, so having you as a friend was a godsend to him, that a cookie like you would want to associate with him. It’s something he treasures deeply, but tries to pass it off as him going easy on you. Wind Archer and Sea Fairy Cookie can try all they want, but he’ll be extinguished before he’ll allow you to be pried from him.

2. Stinging Shock - Scorpion Cookie

Lilac Cookie at least doesn’t end cookies right away and gives them a chance to regret their decision to be close to you, Scorpion Cookie…won’t be giving them that luxury. If she deems a cookie too much of a hassle, she’ll just remove them from the equation. By the time the cookie has realized what hit them, it will all be too late as she watches them crumble away…she dabbles in poisons, not cures after all. So cookies can have fun finding that cure, if there is any to begin with…

1. Baroness of the Sea - Black Pearl Cookie

Normal Route: Why would Black Pearl Cookie want to sink a cookie so…precious looking? Normally, she’d have you at the bottom of the sea by now, but…she couldn’t bring herself to do this to you…what was this about you that has her feeling like this?! This confusion only makes her frustrated, so she’s keeping you with her until she can pinpoint this feeling. She hopes you enjoy your new home in the depths with her…

Heartbreak Route: “You hastily closed the door before locking it, you knew it would do little to protect you from her, but you needed all the security you could get. You avoided the window, there was no telling if you looked out that window, that two glowing eyes would be staring right back at you in the waters. You could hear the faint sound of crying in the distance, the waters were unhappy, she was unhappy. She knew you were here, it was why she hadn’t just annihilated the Lower City already. She was just waiting for the right opportunity to drag you into the darkness of the water’s depths with her…”

At least Black Pearl Cookie is limited by the water, if she wasn’t, she’d be a true cookie to fear for the readers

But since it wouldn’t complete the ensemble today, there’s at least one cookie that will stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, to make sure you’re hers.

…

You saw it coming

0. The Undying Flower - White Lily Cookie

I had to do it to ya, I’m sorry Anon

Escape Difficulty: Impossible

You sealed your fate after spending time with White Lily Cookie regardless of AU, she’s your biggest cheerleader and unofficial girlfriend who’s quick to poison rivals at the mere chance of them getting friendly with you. She’s near impossible to lose and tends to just appear somewhere close by whether you’re on your own or with other cookies.

She’s an ancient cookie for a reason, few cookies will survive a fight against her, so it’s for the best that your so called “friends” back off from you before she taints their very strawberry jam.

Her only limitation is her other ancient friends, but they’re on thin ice before her paranoia gets to her and she joins in on the conversation. She has earned the title of Y/N Cookie cult leader for a reason.

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taitavva · 4 months

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hi the way you draw pego makes me deeply ill i love it

he also makes me deeply ill. hoping that akechi finally does his job & spares the rest of us from falling deeper in delusion

#yes. the yandere gf is who u think it is #goro akechi is ALSO here in spirit #i wanted to include a back of the shirt but.#just know its Official detective prince merch #where pego just screen printed this on the back #so he's technically wearing it backwards #imagine seeing him walk past u & then seeing goro akechi ???#persona 5 #p5 #persona 5 royal #p5r #procreate #2023 #persona 5 protagonist #ren amamiya #akira kurusu #1 hour #taitavva sketches #taitavva talks

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i-smoke-chapstick · 3 months

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‘EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE,

- EVIL!WALLY CLARK X READER -

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; yandere/evil hcs w wally clark.

⋆ tags/warnings. wally clark x female reader. obsessive behavior. toxic white man !!

♫ “Oh, can't you see, you belong to me? How my poor heart aches, with every step you take?” ♫ Every Breath You Take by The Police

𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊

You think you can get away? Sorry sweetheart, not an option.

Jumping straight into this, he will kill you. Find a way to orchestrate it. Manipulate Mr. Martin somehow, set it all up. You’re coming with him. Forever.

He’s been watching you from the get go. Even before he killed you, he studies you like his life depends on it. Rhonda and Charley can ask him why he’s standing in the hallways. He’ll come up with BS excuses- they don’t deserve to know you. Not yet.

He watches your friends with contempt. He’d kill them too if it wouldn’t be so damn awkward, running into them for all eternity. Yuck! The thought makes him sick.

Once your dead- he comforts you. He’s the only person to get to hold you. If anyone tries to talk to you to help you figure out what happened, he’s sending them a charming (a bit scary) smile, and saying “I’ll take over from here.”

He’s sneaking an arm around you. He makes big shows in the ghost circle when your present; pretending to care about helping you find out what killed you. Defending you from Mr. Martin or Rhonda.

He needs to be seen as your hero.

And you’ll be none the wiser.

“Wear my letterman jacket, yeah? For good luck?”

also makes you wear the necklace.

He just wants everyone to know who you belong too.

He’ll dig up CD’s in the school library for you two to have little dates. Listen to the 80’s music in a corner at night. Make you watch all his favorite original horror movies, just so he can see your innocent little face terrified. And then he can wrap an arm around you-

“Hey hey hey, I’ll protect you.”

Truly believes he’s given you everything the two of you could ever want. An eternity together.

If you don’t want to be his prom date, you don’t have the option. His eye will twitch- and with a smile, he’ll say he understands through gritted teeth.

But oh, oh, oh, poor Charley. Wally Clark is a jock- and classic one at that. His highschool bully roots will come through eventually.

He’ll have Charley pushed against a locker, threatening to kill him a second time if he doesn’t convince you to go.

You’re his girl. His only hope to find happiness in this shithole of a school.

“You- you love me, right?”

He asks, his eyes a bit too focused on his jersey number he doodled on the back of your hand.

If you say yes, he’ll practically wag his tail and put an arm around you possessivley.

If you stutter, he’ll nod with a shy laugh- a quick “i’m jus’ kidding,” muttered.

But…on the inside? He’s thinking what more he can do to worship you. To make you realize he’s your knight in shining armor, your best player.

He’s an optimist. And a patient man.

He’ll wait for you to come to your senses.

#wally clark x reader #wally clark #school spirits #wally clark headcanons #wally clark x maddie nears #wally clark fic #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere!wallyclark #evil!wallyclark #milo manheim #milo manheim x reader

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sleepy-platonic-yan · 4 months

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(Platonic) Yandere Spirits + Teenage Reader.

Hello This Is My First Post. I Hope You Can Enjoy This And The Rest My Blog Will Have To Offer. Please Forgive Any Grammatical Errors.

Reader is gn, but the ghosts refer to them as their son—————

You and your mother had moved into a new house. After the tragic death of your brother and father, the house held way too many memories that made it so even walking down the hall could leave you sobbing.

Your mother wanted to really get away from it all, to go out in the country side and ‘blend with nature’, but that was not unexpected of her, she’s always been distant and ready to abandon things at a moments notice for work or her own personal desires. She would have put you and your brother up for adoption if it weren’t for your dad.

but at the end of the day all this really meant for you was that you have to do school online now cause mom bought a farm house in the middle of nowhere.

she made sure you were fine with it which was a bit unexpected, and at the time you really were! It’s just, the house was built in the Victorian era and had seen years of use, hundreds of families and many deaths. And although the house has had new things added like heating and hot water, the house freaked you out still is all.

As you pulled up to the house, its tall figure landing ominously against the moon in the sky, the house looks like it belongs in a horror movie. The large willow tree beside the house with a rope swing that sways in the wind making a ‘creeeek’ every once in a while doesn’t help either. You suck in a breath and don’t open your door, but your mother either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about your fear as she opens her door.

she goes to the back of the car and opens the trunk before shouting “(Readers name) get out of the car and carry your luggage! I ain’t carrying all of this” you mumble an affirmative and open your door. You keep an eyes on the swing, making a note of how it seems to have stopped for an odd amount of time before getting back into swinging ‘wind must be different over there?..’ you think.

you grab your one duffel bag and a few of moms bags before heading to the front door with her. The gravel path to the front door makes crunching noises with each step, making you hyper aware of how loud you’ve been since the second you got here. You shake your head, it’s fine. This is your house. ‘Is it tho?..’

As your mother grabs her key from her purse, you her a weird ‘crunch’ behind you, like the sound of something starting to walk up the path. You whip around but no one’s there. Damn, barely five minutes here and your already paranoid. Your mother opens the door and you walk in.

as you step in, you step into what seems to be the family room, wood floors throughout the house or as far as you can see. The room has a white couch with soft pink flowers as the pattern and white wood legs. That pattern stays with all the furniture in the family room. There is also a old-ish tv.

“hey mom, do you know why the previous owners left their stuff” you ask a bit suspicious, a huge house with good looking furniture selling for a absurdly low price yet it was on the market for months. There’s gotta be something off.

your mom shrugs and tells you it must just be because they don’t need them. You decide to just go with that. Yeah, they just didn’t need them. You and your mother walk around the first floor of the house a bit before ascending the stairs. The stairs are creaky and give a bit to much for your liking with each step. Again your mother doesn’t mind.

as you get to the next floor, it seems most of the rooms are old bedrooms. Your mother immediately goes to the master bedroom with a small yell of “just take any room, I don’t care”

as you look at the hall full of rooms, non seem particularly interesting or safe. You know you have to pick one tho so you peak in each.

Each room contains different items, but each have a painting of a different person. The only one the not have a creepy painting is one of the smallest, with no windows and the bare minimum items.

you end up picking the one that doesn’t have much furniture other then a bed and a desk. The desk is creaky and wobbles at the slightest push. As you toss your duffel bag on the bed the bed creaks loudly as well. You don’t mind, it’s better than being watched by a bunch of most likely dead guys.

You also don’t have much that you brought, so you don’t need much room. You lay down on the bed. This is fine, your just being paranoid.

as you sit down on the bed, or it’s yours now you suppose, you grab your phone from your jacket pocket. As you turn it on you are blinded for a minute by how bright it is, turning down the brightness, you quickly put in your passcode and flip to discord.

as you open up a group chat between you and a bunch of your friends, you begin to talk to them. You talk for a few hours, even hoping on call and showing them your room (they agree it has a creepy vibe to it), you finally say you have to go to sleep at around 3 am.

you remove the blanket that came from the house as you fear it could be moldy, so you’d prefer to just wash it. You take the duffel bag off the bed and open it, grabbing a blanket. The blanket that came with the house is admittedly much better, your blanket is thin and warm with a few holes. But never the less you turn off the lights and hurry back over the bed.

you realize a bit to late you didn’t change clothes, but in all honesty you don’t want to change in this house.

as you lay back on the bed with a creak, you can’t help but think you see things moving around in the darkness.

————

you wake up pretty late in the day. It’s summer break so you don’t have school, or else you would have never stayed up that late. As you sit up you notice oddly enough you’re covered in both blankets, not just yours. You could have sworn you just wore yours but but, uh you must have put it on in the middle of the night!

yeah, that’s what you did. You probably got cold, and put the thicker blanket on for warmth, and if you don’t remember it that’s fine.

As you sit up you notice something on your desk, a piece of paper with a cup of water. As you stand you walk over to the note, it’s from your mom

hey (reader’s nickname), I got a urgent call from work and i need to get back to the office by next week, and I have to leave now to make it. I know I said I work on line these days but they really need me. I know you’ll understand, your nearly a adult you can handle yourself for a few weeks, when I get home I’ll spend lots of time with you.

There’s money attached to the back of the note, and I put all our food from the car in the kitchen.

love - mom

You sigh. it’s always been like this. Seems no matter where you guys live, mom will never be home. You know she works hard but it feels she doesn’t see you as a priority.

although in the back of your mind you recognize the writing looks different then her writing, and she always signs off with her real name and not ‘mom’

As turn the paper around you see that yes, there is money, and it is way too much. 500 bucks. You blink. What. You shake your head, you are not using all of that. You remove the money from the paper and throw the letter in the trash.

For some reason you have a gut feeling not to leave your room. Something feels wrong with this house and it’s even worse with no one else here. You grab your phone again and hop on discord, as you talk to your friends you let them know where you live.

Turns out some friends you met online live real close to you, and they’re cool to come over tomorrow to hang out and keep you company till your mom gets home. You just have to survive today and tonight.

After your friends have to go you’re left sitting on your bed with nothing to do, so you remove the bigger blanket again and decide ‘hey, best way to lose time is to sleep!’ After a bit you slip into unconsciousness.

//change of POV//

as the many pairs of eyes watched their sons eyes close, they can’t help but coo

their sons ‘Mom’ is not fit clearly, so they had to step up. And so far they’ve been doing great, their lovely son is even gonna bring friends over to meet them!

their son is adorable. And all theirs

#platonic yandere #familial yandere #yandere ghost #spirits #new writter

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palesweetscherryblossom · 7 months

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Yandere Spirit Todofam’s roles in the bathhouse

Self indulgent as shit but whatever

Enji handles the general stuff, repairs, finances and finances. He’s very strict about it and likes having a stable work environment. He also handles business partnerships and contracts. He likes it when you come and spend time with him when he’s doing paperwork.

Rei handles their apartment and it’s upkeep. As well handling their staff that cleans the place. Unlike her husband and eldest son, she’s rather merciful. It takes a special kinda person to get Lady Rei mad. (Except you, she can’t ever get upset with her baby.) You help out in minor ways by helping her sew and do mother/child activities together.

Fuyumi handles staff and menus, she’s rather enjoyable to work under and is a very friendly boss. Although, she doesn’t agree with how employees are hired. (I.E Enji putting them under contract.) She loves it when you come and spend time with her, but gets sad when you leave.

Natsou handles the baths themselves, especially what type of ingredients are used in the baths and soaps. He takes his job seriously and doesn’t want anyone hurt. (As much as he would love to sabotage his father’s business but he doesn’t talk about it-) He’s always happy to teach you about certain aspects about his job.

Shoto and Dabi are errand boys, you rarely see them around as they’re busy seeking out partnerships and ingredients. They reluctantly work together but there’s this awkward tension around them.

Dabi also tends to recruit workers and puts them under contract, he also curses anyone who steals from the bathhouse.

Shoto is a chill guy to hang around, he is rather possessive and protective whenever Enji is around. Dabi is an absolute ass to you but is kinda caring. (Still won’t stop him from accidentally pushing you in the Koi fish pond.)

#platonic yandere #yandere todoroki clan #Spirited Away AU #child reader #yandere mha

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nishimiyachan55 · 1 month

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My curse boyfriend

(chapter 3)

Pairing : Mahito(jujutsu kaisen)xreader

Chapter : 3/?

Other chapters : chapter 1 , 2

'a curse'

Opening the doorknob you entered your apartment. It was pitch dark inside. You hit the light button and gestured mahito to come inside. You closed the door and threw your bag on to the couch and took off your shoes and placed it on the shoe rack.

"um....can you take off your shoes and put it here? Actually I don't like dirtying my floor...hehe"

Corners of his mouth turned into a frown. but he decided to follow your order. After putting his shoes on the rack he started to wander around your house. Checking all the things you arranged in place, posters on your wall, your anime merchs, the way you arranged your closet and the picture frame with your best friend. Taking it in his hand he asked "who is this?"

"ah that's my best friend...."you replied to him while taking off your jewelries.

"best friend! Does that mean she is someone special to you?" He asked out of curiosity

"she could be annoying at sometimes but yeah she is very special to me" sitting on the chair in front of your mirror you turned your head towards his side and smiled at him.

He wasn't sure of this best friend thingy but he knew humans could make strong bonds with each other. He didn't want to question it more. instead his eyes searched for something else....Something else he was expecting to see but couldn't find in your room,

"Y/n, i thought you like to read a lot, but why there isn't any books in your room?"

His question made your jaw drop, embarrassment took over you as you search for an answer.

"ah....i...! I usually read on my phone". Without thinking more you answered with a fake but confident smile.

"hmm.... really! You can read on your phone!?" He hummed still not satisfied with your answer.

"yes. Here see...." You opened a manga reader app in your phone and showed him the manga you were reading. That was the only thing you like to read. Books were always boring to you. So you never initiated to read them.

"i see.... you're into stuff like this huh....! but i like books more. Its more comforting than this electronic thingies" he smiled.

You didn't want to push this conversation much further so you walked to your kitchen.He followed you putting his hands on his pocket.

"so...what do you like to eat....? Don't worry, im not that bad at cooking" you giggled.

"hmm....eat huh! Anything you like" his face brightened with a smile, "I'll eat anything you cook for me Y/n". Actually he felt really happy. Questions like this were first for him. Even though he didn't need to eat he wanted to try things you could make for him. Maybe he will compliment your cooking even if he couldn't taste anything.

"ah well then....just wait here, lemme change my clothes and I'll be right back" you walked to your room with a smiling face and locked the door. Walking towards the mirror you started unbuttoning your shirt. After doing the last button you raised your head to peer up at the mirror. A short breath came out from your mouth. He was standing right behind you! Your eyes widened as you turn to face him with a jerk.

"what!! Are you..." Before you could finish your sentence he pushed you back against the mirror. Your thighs hit the vanity table and losing balance you sat on it. You did lock the door right!! Then how did he came inside!!?

You stared at him blankly when he came closer, and he planted his hands on your thighs spreading your leg wide and placed your legs on his hips. Your back pinned on the mirror. Heart starting to beat fast as the feeling of fear started taking over you. You covered your chest pulling both sides of your unbuttoned shirt. He leaned forward and touched your hair slowly caressing it.

"i told you Y/n im gonna make our this date even better than last one" he held your chin up forcing you to look into his eyes "don't you wanna have fun with me....??" The look in his eye turned into a sharp glance.

You weren't ready for this. You never expected a sudden move like this from him. It's not like you never wanted to do it with him, it's just you weren't ready at the moment. After all its only your second meeting.

"No...! Just get away from me" you tried to push him back pressing your hands on his chest. But he didn't even move a bit, you could tell he was too strong. His hand moved from your chin tracing down to your neck. a sharp noise of a knife like thing in your ear held your body still. Your eyes shifted to his hand on your neck. The sight of it made you tremble with fear. His hand shaped into a knife! and it was pressing against your throat. He can change the shape of his hand!!?? The pressure formed in your chest started to come up to the throat stopping right under where he held that knife.

"No....! please" a whimper came out from your mouth. eyes filling with tears you begged for mercy.

"you're not suppose to say NO to me Y/n, say Yes. Come on.... say it" he put a little more pressure on the knife almost wounding your skin. The look on his face made you shudder. It wasn't like the cute one you saw before, it was a terrifying one with that evil grin.

Tears falling down to your cheek you said "Yes..."

"That's good, now stay like that. You're going to be a good toy for me Y/n.....Aren't you?" He looked at you with that evil grin again. Pressing his hand on your thigh he said "Say Yes". his tone was a commanding one.

"Yes" another whimper escaped from your mouth.

His grin grew wider as he started trailing his hands over your thigh sliding your skirt up. When his hand reached to your clothed slit, one thumb rubbed against the fabric. You squirmed from his touch and the sight of you wriggling send sparks of excitement to his abdomen. He continued it until he felt a wet sensation on his finger. His lips curved into a grin.

"hm....you like this huh...!? What if i put my finger inside....will you squirm more for me...?" He leaned to your shoulder and whispered in your ear. Your legs squeezed his hips unconsciously. It was all the answer he needed from you. He put his hand inside and slowly started to slide his middle finger along your slit. His other hand still held that knife on your throat while the other started giving pleasure to you. A feeling of pleasure mixed with fear...

"Mahito...! Please... stop...." You tried to fight back the warm feeling forming inside your core. But he never stopped he put another finger in and started to thrust in a fast and slow pace. You couldn't hold back the soft moan escaped from your mouth. He kept thrusting inside you pulling his fingers back and forth. The hands placed on his chest for pushing him away slowly tugged into his cloth but this time to pull him closer.

The sight of you was absolute pleasure to him.... Your head under his knife, hands tugging on his clothes pulling him closer, your legs squeezing his hips and the moans made by your lips.

You couldn't hold back yourself from almost about to cum. But that's when he pulled his hand out. You peered at him, your face turned into confusion and disappointment hit you. but still you try not to show it. He held his hand in front of you , fingers coated with your wet juices, with a smile he smeared it on your chest finally retrieving that knife from your throat.

"that was too close... isn't it?" He smiled at you bringing back that innocence in his face like as if he didn't put a knife on your throat. At that time you thought he was done with you. But you were wrong. He was just starting.... Lowering himself down on his knees he sunk into the floor and he placed your legs on his shoulder. You couldn't stop your self from shivering when the feeling of shame hit your body.

"calm down Y/n im not gonna hurt you. Don't be scared, im just trying to make our date a memorable one..." his sudden change in behavior made you a little calm but still not convincing to push back the fear he made before. He threatened you just before this and now he is trying to comfort you.

He leaned closer to your cunt, his hair swirled on your thighs, his cool breath tickled your lower half. Before you could react he pressed his tongue on your wet cloth. His saliva mixing with your wetness, he started to move his tongue upwards and downwards and in circles. You raised your hand to cover your mouth to block your self from moaning. But his hands grabbed on to your wrists holding it still. He gave a sharp glance up to you showing his disapproval and he licked the corner his lip. You closed your eyes and quickly turned your head to the other side. You bit your bottom lip trying to suppress the pleasure he gave you.

The sound of his giggle made you open your eyes again and you tilted your head to look at him. He pulled his head back, glancing up to you and he gave you that innocent smile again.

It was hard to tell what he was thinking. Is he going to pull that knife on you again or is he gonna give more pleasure to you...you couldn't understand this guy, he is just unpredictable.

He slowly started to slide down the cloth under your skirt. Your eyes widened and embarrassment rushed to your face. That's when you lost control of your self.

"Just let me go you freak!!" Taking all Your strength you tried to pull your hands from his grip. twisting your body, you put one leg on his chest trying to push him away and with your other leg you kicked on his face.

Luckily you were able to move yourself from his grip. You covered your exposed self with your skirt in a quick movement and curled your legs up on the vanity table. It was a sudden reflex of your brain from the feeling of pride. You never wanted to get raped by someone, even if you like the guy.

Then you looked down at him. He didn't move a bit from there, he just stood still on his knees keeping his head tilted to the side from your kick. He never expected that. He thought you will never resist after he pulled a knife on you.

The feeling of fear took your body,a cold feeling in your chest. You knew you messed up. Why did you do that! You could just stay there just taking the pleasure he provided you. Your damn pride wouldn't allow that. Now he is gonna be so mad at you. No! Maybe he's going to kill you.

Tears flood down from your eyes, you were expecting to see his mad face when he tilted his head to face you. Instead you found a smiling cute face. He started to giggle, soon turned into a big laugh. Not an evil one, but a really cute and sweet laugh. He threw his head back closing his eyes and he pushed himself back from his knees to sit on the floor almost like a fall. He kept laughing so loudly like he was laughing at something really funny.

Your face turned into a frown, confusion taking over you. Why is he laughing? Is it because he find it funny!! Or....is it because he is going to kill you!!?? You couldn't move your self from there. You just sit there, frozen....

After taking a deep breath he looked at you "you were better than I thought Y/n. I never thought you were this fun to play with" he slowly raised himself from the floor and placed his hands on the table pushing himself up against you. He leaned closer caging you under him. You curled your self under his chest expecting him to turn himself into a sharp object to kill you.

"don't be scared Y/n, im not gonna hurt you...come here.." he hugged you tight wrapping his arms around you, like a hug of comfort. But you thought he is going to squeeze you hard and going to kill you by breaking your bones. But he didn't. He leaned back lifting you in his arms and walked towards the bed.

He dropped you right into the pillows. You tried to get up in a flash but his hand held your head pushing you back. Your head sank into the pillows. When his hand retrieved from your face you glance up to him. What you saw before your eyes hitched your breath.

He was removing his top. now you could see his big chest, toned muscles and his abs. He was more hotter than you thought. You couldn't blink your eyes from the sight of his body. At that point you decided you are not going to resist him no matter what he do. He looked to your face and gave a soft smile.

How can someone be this hot and cute at the same time!! You never felt this feeling towards any other human males before. He wasn't a human after all.

But, You skip a beat when you saw what's under his pants. It was so huge... your eyes widened on the sight. Heat rushed to your lower half as he leaned closer and crawled on top of you. His face right above yours staring into your eyes. You could hear your heartbeat in your ear.

"don't try to resist this time Y/n....., last time i allowed it. don't expect me to do the same again...." It was a warning. His smiling face didn't hide that sharpness in his voice.

You laid under him like a good toy when he removed the rest of your clothes. You didn't resist, you didn't dare.... Laying all exposed under him. He lifted your head and wrapped his hand behind your neck allowing you to rest your head on his hand. He trailed his tongue along the crook of your neck pulling you closer to him and nuzzled on the side of your neck. You closed your eyes and clung your teeth. When he pull back his head he looked down at you with a crooked smile.

His fingers wrapped on your wrist and he lifted your left hand along with it to his lips. He started kissing on each of your fingers one by one. At that moment you thought he was expressing his sweet love to you.

When he kissed the tip of your left ring finger he pushed it inside his mouth and gave you a rough bite with his teeth. You couldn't stop the scream came from your mouth. It hurt so bad....and tears trailed down to your hair. When he pulled his mouth back leaving your finger, you could see his bite mark on your finger with blood, a mark that look exactly like a ring... a present of love from him...

"here....take it. Now this will tell...you belongs to me....Don't worry when it fades I'll make sure to give you another one Y/n. It stays on your finger, forever..."

No it wasn't a gift! It was a mark of his dominance over you. The only thing you could do was crying with pleasure and pain at the same time when he started thrusting into you with his cock. He was rough, his pace was too fast and it shook your whole body. You held your hand on the side of your tear soaked pillow squeezing it in your fist. You even lost the count of your orgasm, your brain couldn't handle this feeling Mahito gave you.

You breathed heavily trying to pull your self together. But that didn't work when his thrusts hit harder on your inside. You thought you would break in half. You tilted your head to look at the clock beside your bed. What time is it? When did he start this? It's been at least two hours! Is it? Or maybe more than that!?

He pressed his palm on your jaw and forced your head to look on his face. He was watching you all this time even when you closed your eyes. He was enjoying each and every second of his view in delight. The pain and pleasure he is causing you. Absorbing each minor expression you made for him....

He quickened his pace preparing to give you the final thrust. He knew you couldn't handle more at this point. At this rate if he continues this, maybe he will end up breaking you. He didn't want to break his new toy this soon. So even if he didn't wanted to but he decided to end this right now.

Your hands moved to wrap on his shoulders when overstimulation hit your core. You hugged him tighter in your arms with shivering legs. one hand pulling fist full his lakeshore blue hair and with a loud moan you released your cum at the same time when his white ooze filled your inside. He gave a light soft moan in your ears along with it, squeezing you into his chest.

He stayed on top of you like that for a couple of minutes, you both panting heavily. He could hear your heartbeat so louder. After a moment of silence a light laugh came from his mouth. He lifted his face from your neck and glanced into your eyes with that soft innocent smile. That mesmerizing eyes were something else right! The way it stares into yours always made your mind wanting to kiss him. But you didn't do that, instead you asked him with panting unsteady voice

"Mahito, wha..!!what.... are you...!!?"

He stroked on your hair with his fingers moving the strands of hair covering your forehead

"A 'curse'...., a curse born from human hatred...."

#mahito #jjk #jjk mahito #jujutsu kaisen #mahito x reader #mahito x y/n #jujutsu kaisen anime #jujutsu kaisen manga #cursed spirit #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #yandere

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frickingnerd · 2 months

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yandere maya fey

pairing: maya fey x gn!reader

tags: yandere, stalking, maya acting innocent

you never noticed any of the warning signs until it was already too late

maya was your friend and it was only natural that friends knew things about each other!

your favorite food, how you liked your coffee, your birthday… you never questioned it when maya knew all those things about you

but slowly, she seemed to know things about you that you never told her. your work schedule, your medical record, your passwords

you weren't sure how she figured those things out, but you were too nervous to ask. you kept telling yourself that you must've told her and just forgot about it

but one night, you could hear an intruder in your house! and when you entered your living room, scared as ever, you spotted maya there

“i used the key you hide in the flower pots outside! don't worry, i'll put it back later!”

she said that with the same sweet smile she always had. that innocent smile, that always eased your worries, when she said something she shouldn't be saying

but now, that smile wasn't working on you anymore. you panicked, wondering how she knew your adresse or the location of that spare key. but maya just smiled at you innocently

“don't look at me so scared! i know everything about you, darling. and i know that we are perfect for each other~”

#maya fey x reader #maya x reader #fey x reader #maya fey #x reader #x you #x y/n #x gn reader #headcanons #yandere maya fey #yandere maya #ace attorney x reader #spirit of justice #trials and tribulations #justice for all #ace attorney

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after-witch · 10 months

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My Heart Was Not So Heavy Then [Yandere Spring Spirit x Reader]

Title: My Heart Was Not So Heavy Then [Yandere Spring Spirit x Reader]

Synopsis: You've always known you were going to die in the spring.

Word Count: 8600ish

Notes: yandere, reader is a married woman, misogyny, mentions of expected pregnancies and childbirth, reader becomes pregnant, physical abuse (slapping); some animal birthing descriptions

You have always known that you were going to die in the spring. It was not a fact that you shared with others--you learned very early that such talk was not acceptable. It earned you stares and whispered words and on one occasion, sore knuckles from your mother rapping them with a stick, sternly telling you to stop talking like that.

So you did.

You pretended not to know that one spring, when the flowers were in bloom, you would die and cease to be. You kept this knowledge with you, a secret in your pocket, but you no longer let it slip from your lips. You kept your thoughts to yourself between the snow melting and the heat of summer rising, wondering, always wondering: is this the spring?

And if you grew up with death woven into your thoughts, stitched like embroidery into your heart, was that so bad? You still grew up. You had friends and played. You learned to read enough to get by and you loved to paint, when your parents could afford the materials, and life was sweet and bitter in all the right turns.

And now you were old enough to marry, though the prospect of it all--marriage, birth, death--seemed almost fruitless sometimes. What was the point? How long would it last?

You were going to die in the spring. And your husband didn’t even know.

You had a beautiful dream that morning. A lovely thing. Hazy--perfect for spring. Something that would no doubt be half-remembered by the early afternoon, only recalled in desperate snatches that you could not possibly hold onto for very long. Not when there were chores to be done and your husband’s younger sisters and brother to mind and neighbors to visit and your mother-in-law to appease.

Such beautiful dreams were lost in the tumult of life. It was to be expected that you’d never fully retain them past childhood, and certainly not now, married and expected to carry your load in your husband’s household while you waited to start your own.

When you were a child, the thought of your impending death was almost like an adventure. But now, you’ve found, it makes your heart feel sick with worry. Would it be worse to die before or after you had a child? Should you even have children? Was it wrong not to tell your husband what you knew?

But you remembered your sore knuckles and the way people stared when you told them, voice high and babbling, that you were going to die in the spring. So you said nothing. You woke up and you ate and you worked and you slept and you dreamed.

Even snatches of beautiful dreams, fleeting and whispered, were better than nothing.

Your mother-in-law--and you all live under the same room, mother-in-law, husband, wife, and his younger siblings--doesn’t care much for dreams. She told you so, the first time she caught you smiling at the breakfast table, still lost in the dizziness of a lovely dream.

Dreams are for children, not for married women, she had said. Someone about to have children of their own, running around your feet. Someone who is expected to be a proper spouse, a proper mother, a proper everything.

Best forget about your dreams, is what she told you. And you knew she meant it in every way possible.

Your husband, Thomas, doesn’t seem to mind your dreams. Figurative and otherwise. When he has a few extra coins in his pocket, he sometimes buys you paints, a little easel. The paints are cheap and the easels need to be carefully prepared before they will accept paint, but you don’t mind the effort. When you’re ready, he always ushers his mother into the house and lets you sit outside and work.

Your paintings will outlive you, and maybe that’s why you like it so much.

Not that your mother-in-law sees the benefit in any of it. Though you’re glad, at least, that she prefers to send you outside the home to work. Go to town, collect herbs, collect wood to be chopped by your husband or his brother that is old enough to wield an ax.

You don’t mind that she puts you to work outside the home so much. There will be plenty to do inside once you’re married, she tells you now and then, and even more once there’s a baby in your belly.

The thought makes you feel already heavy, leaden, like there’s a chain wrapped around your stomach keeping you to the floor… but you don’t tell her that.

Instead, you briskly step through the threshold as soon as you can, sometimes pulling off your husband’s younger sister who loves you (and you do love her, despite her clinginess, despite the knowledge that you won’t be here forever) and wishes you would stay home with her instead.

But you like the woods. You’re always alone in the woods. There’s nobody here to judge you. For your secrets or your paintings or anything else.

The woods are quiet and not-quiet, all the same. Buzzing insects and the trill of birds and the snap of branches from foxes and deer and perhaps, on occasion, a bear.

But there are no squealing children, shouting neighbors, or nagging mothers-in-law here. No children dragging against your skirts, no mother-in-law staring at your belly, tsking, wondering no doubt: when will you be ripe?

Ripe. What a thought. Your hand goes to your belly. You and Thomas had already started… becoming one, as they say, before you were married. You’re not meant to do so, until you’re married. But you were betrothed and Thomas said no one would mind very much, if your belly was a little round at the wedding that winter. But you weren’t pregnant at your wedding. And not now, either.

You wish you could avoid town for a little longer. And, more wistfully, you wish you could remember your dream from this morning. It was something beautiful and fresh. It made you feel renewed that morning, gave you a spring in your step. But what was it?

You sigh, ready to turn at the fork and head into town--when you hear it.

A horrible bleat.

You know that sound, and what it means.

Your legs carry you quick as anything towards the wild, primal noise, and sure enough, there--on the other side of a fence is a sheep, keeled over on her side, bleating awfully with one fresh lamb sitting at her head. She licks it in between her awful screams and you know that there must be another one still beside her. But it won’t come out.

You hop over the fence and her bleats intensify at the sight of you, despite the soft hushings you give her. Your hands reach towards her exposed underside and you see the edge of a leg, tiny and jerking. But no matter how much she bleats, it does not progress.

It’s stuck.

You tug your sleeves up to your elbow--they’ll probably get bloody anyway, but best to spare them as much as you can--and stick your arms inside, feeling the wet, squirming gore covering the lamb that refuses to be born.

“Do you need help?”

Your mind jerks but you force your body to stay still, lest you injure the lamb. You glance up and there is a young man standing in front of you, behind the fence. A stranger. He has chestnut hair that glints a little golder in the spackle of the spring light.

“I--”

The lamb tries to push again, which only seems to make the little thing underneath your hands tremble. But it moves no further.

“It’s stuck,” you say, tongue almost sticking to your mouth. There is no time for introductions or questions when there is a bleeding sheep and a stuck lamb before you. That can come later, as it always does, in times like these. “I need someone to push on her while I move it.” You pause, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Or I need four hands.”

The man laughs and leaps easily over the fence, landing right next to you. When he crouches, the smell of forest flowers spreads, though there is no breeze to bring them. He wastes no time in assisting you, and he must be the son of a farmer, you think, the way his hands deftly manipulate the lamb through the sheep’s thick wool and skin.

As he does so, your hands slip further inside, gripping the slick bloody wool and turning, turning--until there is a little rush of thickened blood and the lamb slides out. There is a moment of silence in which you think, poor lamb, poor thing.

But it bleats. It lives. And the mother jerks her body up, terrified bleats turning to ones of relief, and soon the stubborn second lamb is joining the first in getting its first mother’s bath.

“Bluebells,” you say. And then your mouth goes to your lips.

The man looks at you, and quirks his head to the side. “Hm?”

“Bluebells,” you say again. Then you smile and look down at your hands, covered in wetness and blood and birthing gore. “I… dreamt about them last night. I’ve been trying to remember my dream all morning, and it came to me just then as the lamb came out. How funny.”

He stares at you. You think back to your mother, your neighbor, your friends--the look they gave you when you told them about your spring-induced death. But you just told him about a dream. Why should he look at you so intensely?

But the look is gone before you know it, and instead he smiles. It’s a toothy smile. He stands, and then extends his hand to you. You glance down at your bloody hands and help yourself up, and he merely shrugs, and lets out a little laugh.

He insists on following you to the farmer’s door, so that you can let him know about the lambs. He tells you that his name is Robert, but everyone calls him Robin, and you can call him that, if you don’t mind.

You don’t mind, so you do.

“Did you make a wish?” He asks suddenly, as the two of you make your way up the winding, cleared path between the neighbor’s fences.

You’re busy wiping your hands on your apron--oh, how Thomas’ mother will seethe at the sight of it. “A wish?”

The man does a little spin as he walks--a spin!--and you can’t help but smile at him. He looks to be about your age, but he seems more carefree than the other men in town. Certainly more carefree than Thomas, who as of late has begun to calculate how much he will need to work, to make, to save, in order to expand his family’s home for your own children. You try not to think about that.

“A wish,” he repeats. “during your dream. On the first bluebell of spring.”

You laugh, and a cow somewhere on the other side of the fence moos in response. Silly thing. You’re not sure whether you’re referring to the cow or yourself.

“I’m afraid not,” you say, shaking your head. “I didn’t know.”

The man pauses his steps and hums. His fingers go to his lips, as if this is a serious conundrum, indeed. You remember, then, that you never asked his name. He hops back over the fence and you’re about to call out when he lets out a noise of success, and saunters back with a sprig of bluebells in his hand.

You didn’t see them there before. But you were paying more attention to your hands than the flowers.

He holds them out to you, and raises his eyebrows. “They aren’t the first bluebells this year, but I don’t think it will matter much.”

Making a wish on bluebells. How silly. But it’s just the sort of thing you used to do, when you let yourself indulge more in your secrets.

You reach out and brush the petals with your fingertips, letting the soft petals and stems tickle your skin. Then you close your eyes and make a wish.

You keep that wish in your pocket with your other secrets.

---

That night, Thomas holds you too roughly in bed and pushes too roughly inside you and you close your eyes and think, suddenly, of the bluebells. And the lamb. And the blood. And Robin.

When he pulls out, the stickiness of it all makes you wince. You don’t tell him that you pretended at your own release, and he doesn’t notice the lie.

“That should take,” he says, voice breathy. He rests his head back against his pillow and glances at you. Is it wariness in his eyes, or weariness? Sometimes you wonder if he regrets the marriage. Most of your friends, married off earlier than you, were already with child. Or had one weaning from a wet nurse already.

You wonder if any of them missed their dreams and took them out of drawers and gazed at them, the way you like to do. Any notions you had of leaving town and being a painter died long ago. When your parents died, maybe--but perhaps earlier. When your parents tutted at the idea of paying for painting lessons or when they pulled you out of schooling because you didn’t need much, they said, to run a household. Or when you had that first realization that you were going to die someday, in the spring, when the flowers bloomed, and was there any point to pursuing a life when it was all going to end, anyway?

Thomas says your name and you’re pulled out of your reverie. He leans forward and kisses your cheek, and you lean against him. He’s not a bad man, really. He buys you paints. He peels his mother-in-law from your presence when she’s overbearing.

But sometimes you catch him staring at your empty belly with a frustrated sadness that makes your fingers curl.

Beside you, on the bedside table, is a sketch of bluebells you made when you came home. You didn’t bother using your paints on it--you don’t have the right blues to capture them just right.

The next day, you dutifully visit the farmer to ask about the lamb. You tell your mother-in-law this, and she smiles, grateful that you’re enduring yourself to their neighbors. It is essential, she has told you before, that you maintain a good standing in the community.

And you aren’t exactly uninterested in the lamb or the farmer. But you’re mostly hoping to run into Robin on your way there, if only to ask him to help you find more bluebells like the ones he gave you yesterday. You want to dry them out and save them, and perhaps the next time Thomas’ purse is heavy (though when that will be, considering all the things he is planning, you don’t know) he might be able to find a suitable paint.

But when you ask the farmer if he’s seen the man who helped you yesterday, he gives you a look. A look that reminds you of rapped knuckles and whispers.

“I don’t recall anyone with you yesterday,” he says, glancing behind you before giving you a look that was perhaps skin to pity. Maybe he remembers the dusty rumors from your childhood. Or maybe the sun is in his eyes.

“Well…” you start, and it’s best to shrug it all off, isn’t it? “I’m sorry to have bothered. I’m glad to hear that the lambs are doing well.”

It’s funny how easy it is to wash away strange looks with complacent, neighborly smiles. Funny and a little sad. The farmer waves you off and gives you a basket of fresh bread his wife baked and vegetables his son harvested and a tin of jam his daughter made. You imagine baking bread to give to neighbors and something inside you shudders.

So the farmer didn’t remember seeing Robin. Perhaps Robin was standing behind you. Perhaps the farmer had gotten into the drink a little early.

Perhaps Robin wasn’t real and you were losing your mind and dying from some unknown illness that was finally, finally going to kill you and--

But when you reach the fork in the road that leads in and out of town, there is Robin, leaning up against a tree, a thistle of something dancing in his teeth. He’s wearing a loose white top with frills, almost akin to an undershirt than anything else, and plain black trousers. When he catches your eye, it drops from his mouth as he practically runs toward you.

You think to ask him about the farmer, but he’s talking--there is a bit of green stem in his teeth--before you can speak.

“Did you dream of bluebells again?”

You smile, a forced politeness, and shake your head. You didn’t dream of bluebells, and it was a shame. Instead you dreamt of your belly growing big and there was an awful pain and grayness, and you were dead before your child could even walk, and your husband didn’t care--all he did was pick up the beautifully squirming baby and go on his merry way.

“I dreamt about…” But you can’t tell him about that. You wouldn’t tell your husband about this dream, much less a stranger wearing

Robin’s grin broadens. “What? You can tell me. I like hearing about these first dreams in spring, you know.”

You’ve known this man for less than two hours, yesterday’s lamb birth and walk to the farmhouse considered, but you find him refreshingly strange.

But you shake your head. You shake your head. You wouldn't burden a stranger with the troubles of your life that spill into dreams. What would this young man care about the woes of your life, anyway? Your fears about death and life and marriage. Though perhaps he had a wife. Perhaps she was at home, toiling over the hearth, while he sprawled about the woods and talked gaily with others and grinned at them and gave them flowers.

You force down the bitter kernel of resentment. It wasn't fair to him, you suppose, to spin such an assumption out of nothing. He looked young enough to remain untethered, and men often went longer without marrying, anyway. He was a helpful--albeit unusual--young man who helped you pull a lamb out of a stuck sheep and escorted you to-and-fro afterwards. That was all.

“You think too much,” he says, and the shock of it pulls you out of your thoughts and brings a bit of heat to your cheeks. You do think a lot. It’s a bad habit, started from childhood, when thinking about things (you’re going to die in the spring) was revealed as preferable to saying them out loud.

“You’ll get wrinkles,” he points out, voice sing-song, and gestures a finger towards your lips, which are set in a somewhat serious frown.

He grins.

“It doesn’t matter. Look--” He sweeps his hand down towards the ground, and you instinctively step back as you notice for the first time that there is a carpet of bluebells underneath your feet. They weren’t there before… or were they? You were so often lost in thought in the spring that you perhaps paid more attention to the limited nature of your future than you did the world around you.

And aren’t these just the most vibrant bluebells you’ve ever seen? Their color reminds you of

“Witches' thimbles,” you blurt out. He quirks his head again, like you’re a fascinating specimen at a museum. Not that you’ve ever been to one, or will likely ever go. “That’s… another name for them, isn’t it?”

Heat blossoms across your cheeks. You feel stupid. Silly. Who cares about another name for bluebells? It’s exactly the sort of thing that made people give you strange looks when you were younger--blurting out facts that no one cared to hear. Whether it was the fact of your impending demise or a stream of names for spring flowers.

But he doesn’t look at you like you’re strange. Instead, he busts out laughing.

“Yes!” Like an extremely enthusiastic tutor, thrilled that his pupil has finally gotten an answer correct. “Or wood hyacinth, lady’s nightcap…”

He crouches down and brushes his hands over the blossoms, drooping blue-purple bells that sway just enough in the breeze.

You crouch down--oh, it’s so untoward--and take a sniff. Bluebells don’t have a very strange fragrance, and you only get a bit of bright greenness. And then another name comes to you, and you can’t help the carefree grin that spreads across your face before you spit it out.

“Crow’s toes!”

He stares at you, and there’s a split second where you think ah, that was too much and now I’ve ruined everything, before he bursts into laughter.

“Cuckoo’s boots!” He counters, voice choking with mirth.

It takes you only a moment before you’re the one bursting with laughter, and your crouch turns into a full blown sit right on the ground. Your skirt will be dirty and if someone comes across the pair of you, the local gossip will never end, but you don’t seem to care in the presence of the laughing, strange young man in front of you.

When the laughter fades and you’re left inexplicably sitting on the ground in a pile of bluebells, you finally think to ask something of him. Something you really ought to have asked before, but you were distracted. By lambs and bluebells and the season itself.

“Why haven’t I seen you around before, Robert?”

“Robin,” he says, light and easy. He shrugs just as easily. “I’m only around sometimes. I like to travel.”

His eyes are a brilliant shade of blue. Not quite deep enough to mimic a bluebell, but there’s a dancing light in them. The thought is too much, and you clear your throat and help yourself to your feet.

There is a difference, you think, between being yourself (when is the laugh time you laughed giddily? The last time you made a joke? Your husband could be kind, but he was not silly or carefree or funny…) and being improper.

“Well,” and your voice is back to sounding almost prim, an echo of your mother-in-law. You are a married woman, after all. “I’m glad I’ve caught you when you’re visiting, then. Thank you--” He looks up at you, and there’s confusion in his eyes. Maybe a little hurt, too. “For your help with the lamb,” you finish.

He doesn’t stand up, which is odd enough. Instead he pulls his knees up to his chest and stares up at you. “I didn’t do much.” He sighs, a soft, long sound that makes you want to contradict him. “You could have done it even without four hands, I bet!”

The compliment makes you want to stay. It also makes you want to leave.

“It’s nothing.” You glance down at your hands. They aren’t a painter’s hands, though you often wished they were. They were a farmer’s hands. “My parents were farmers and I grew up here. It’s not the first lamb I’ve helped birth… or cow… or goat.” A low sound from your throat, a mirthless chuckle. “Or a person.”

He blinks up at you.

“Do you have children?”

Your hand goes to your stomach.

“No.”

Your lips get tight and thin and yes, perhaps it is time you left.

He groans, suddenly, and flops back on the grass. One hand splays over his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding annoyed and sorrowful and pouting all in one breath. “Ugh!” He opens his eyes and stares up at the sky. “Sore subjects, there’s always sore subjects…”

You almost feel a little sorry for him. He reminds you of… yourself. Somewhere, deep down, buried under layers of corrections that began with rapped knuckles.

“It’s all right,” you tell him, voice soft. “You didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a common enough question, I suppose.”

“Please don’t go,” he asks, and you want to smile a little at the wheedling tone in his voice. “You’re fun. I like it.”

You shake your head and lift up your skirts. It’s too much, isn’t it? Someone might see. And even if they don’t, there’s that pit growing in your stomach, a pit all women must cultivate for situations like these.

He continues to lay in the grass for a few moments, before he hoists himself up and jumps back into a standing position. He’s back to smiling, as if nothing had ever been said between you.

“If you stay…” His voice is teasing you, drawing you in, pulled candy held on a stick. “I’ll let you use these.”

And you take a step back now, when he crouches and reaches for a bag left loitering on the ground. You don’t remember seeing that bag. Maybe you are too overworked lately. Your brain must be frazzled and fried like eggs in a hot pan.

But instead of pulling out a weapon or something else that has your lips ready to shout for help, he pulls out… paints.

A set of paints. And a traveling easel, with a sheet of cloth ready to be bolted over it.

You stare at the paints. Then at the bluebells. And then at him.

“I… could stay for a little while.”

That evening, blue paint stains your fingertips while you finish your sewing for the evening. Your husband’s shirts, first; then your mother-in-law’s; then the children’s; and then your own.

There is a robin perched in the window and you laugh. A bright, beautiful sound in a room that has seen little giddiness since you and your husband have made it your home. Your husband, busy with his own work, looks up at you with a peculiar expression.

But he says nothing.

He said nothing about your fingertips, either. Although he clearly saw them when you came home. Instead of asking--and you would have told him, surely?--he pursed his lips and gave your arm an affectionate squeeze and told you that he’d bartered for some fresh cheese from the neighbor.

You like cheese, so you’d thanked him, and went about your day.

And now it was evening, bordering nightfall, and the time for chores has ended as a new nightly task was set before you. The task that had you unfastening the laces of your dress, and then your stays, and climbing into bed in your night chemise to wait for your husband.

The window behind you was open, letting in the cool spring air. Singing crickets were as good as music and darkened pinks and purples filtered through the window, the last bits of dappled colors before night would come.

The robin is still there when you tilt your head up and look out the window to catch the fleeting sunlight.

And you swear the bird quirks its head as your husband unfastens his trousers and climbs into bed.

It’s not right to do this. You know it’s not. But you meet Robin again, and again, and again. The spring seems longer than ever and for once you are not fretting about childhood prophecies, you are not foregoing thoughts of happiness and friendships because you’re worried about the fact that you won’t live to cherish them forever.

Instead, you’re meeting with Robin at the same spot, the far far end of the neighbor’s fence where only the lambs like to go. Where the stubborn lamb was born and comes, sometimes, sneaking underneath the fence and sitting between the two of you.

Together, you paint. After a while, Robin brought a proper easel with him, along with a canvas worth more than ten of the canvases your husband could ever afford to buy you. And the paints, oh the paints! Such rich shades that perfectly mimic the natural colors of the world around you. For once, you are making progress on bluebells that aren’t hampered by a limitation in color or quantity.

But you don’t just paint. You talk. About your dreams and the future and everything but your secret. Because for once, you’re not thinking about it.

Because Robin makes you laugh.

Because he makes you feel like yourself, or someone you used to be. Like you can peel off layers of smoke and grease and find yourself again, fresh and new.

Because he makes you feel unmarried.

And if you come home later than usual, if you sing more than you ever had before, if your smiles and laughs fill the house with a lightness it has been sorely missing… is that such a bad thing? Your paintings of bluebells are hung up in your bedroom, and your husband hums at them and says they look pretty. And it’s not exactly like being a real painter but it’s nice enough for the life that you have--and that’s all we can ever hope for, isn’t it?

Robin’s kisses are tinged with the flowers he likes to nibble on now and then. Spicy and sweet.

Today his kiss tastes of honey and you draw back and press disbelieving fingers to your lips. When he grins, as he always does, his mouth is sticky with thick, orange honey.

“Wh--where did you get--” You sputter, licking the taste in your mouth. A delicious floral honey, earthy and sweet.

“Honeycomb.” He gestures behind him, somewhere in that wild, beautiful forest that surrounds the carefully plotted paths the townspeople made so long ago. Then he pulls out a chewed piece of raw honeycomb, jagged and broken. It’s a wonder he didn’t get stung.

You laugh--oh Robin, silly Robin--and say nothing more, but lean forward and begin to lick the rest of it from his lips.

Before the afternoon is out, the two of you make love for the first time. Beneath the tree, above the bluebells, yards away from the stubborn lamb who fell asleep by the fencepost hours before.

“You wicked slut!”

There is a flesh-colored blur and then a sting across your face. Not painful but humiliating and surprising and oh God, you think, at least it wasn’t my knuckles.

She knew. They knew. Your mother-in-law and your husband and probably half the town, if not the whole of it. Someone saw you two (the farmer? You hope not, thinking of his basket and his smile, but thinking of his strange look at you, too) and your mother-in-law has put two and two together to make four.

Four being that you and this young man are clearly engaged in something other than paintings and picnics. You could tell her that you’ve only kissed, nothing more. But it would be worse to admit to anything right now, when gossip has inflamed her imagination.

Do you dare look at your husband? No. Not for more than a second. He stands, firm, his mouth pressed into a frown. But he says nothing as his mother screams at you and slaps you once, and then twice.

“Have you been together?” She practically shrieks the words out, and spittle flies towards your tingling cheek.

“I--” You don’t answer, but your stuttering is enough. Your face is enough. The way your body seems to shrink inward is enough.

Your mother-in-law’s voice turns into a ragged gasp, and she huffs until she sits herself down in a chair pulled from the kitchen. She’s done, burnt out, probably thinking of ways to turn you out of the house.

You don’t know what else to do, so you turn towards Thomas and look at him as fully as you can despite the pain in your cheek and the guilt rolling about your chest.

He stares at you for a moment. And then he raises a hand to slap you, the way his mother had slapped you, the way that his mother has slapped the children and no doubt, the way she slapped him, when he was a child.

But he doesn’t touch you. His hand lowers, slow, and you catch a hint of tears in his voice as he tells you to go to the bedroom and stay there.

Guilt, regret and rebellion, turn over in equal measure in your stomach.

You’re not allowed to walk beyond the plot of the garden fence surrounding your home. Your mother-in-law forbids it, and your husband does not contradict her.

He does tell her that you are never to be slapped again, and that is at least something.

But what relief comes from that is overshadowed when he throws away your paints and your papers, your sketch pad and your pencils.

“No more,” he says, voice low. “No more.”

“Why?” You ask, and you see yourself in his eyes. A wife who sneaks out of the home to dally with young men in the forest, a wife who comes home with paint on her fingers, who stains his mended shirts with the color of bluebells.

He says nothing. He gives your shoulder a squeeze and asks you to mind the cooking supper while his mother goes into town.

You begin to throw up in the mornings.

You begin to have strange dreams, feverish ones, of bluebells and births and sticky dark lamb’s blood.

It’s not until your mother-in-law treats you more tenderly that you realize what it all means. The sickness and dreams and odd feeling in yourself.

You haven’t bled since the end of winter.

You are with child.

The news lightens the household. At least, it lightens Thomas and his mother, who is beside herself with preparations for you. She spends the evenings working on a pile of baby clothes and often comes home from the market with fruits said to ease your stomach, poultices she swears will be ideal when you begin to have swollen feet.

You don’t want to have swollen feet. You don’t want to think about how Thomas must now build the addition to the home sooner than anticipated, and how you’ll have to learn how to feed your child and raise your child, and how there will always be a tether between the two of you that could be snipped at any moment.

Your husband brings you things that are pretty and sweet. But never paints. You don’t think you’ll ever see him walk through the threshold with those again.

But you can’t complain about how he treats you. He insists on buying cushions for the chairs, so you don’t have to sit down as far. He minds what you eat. He holds you in the night, and no longer insists on entering you--a respite in several ways.

He says nothing when you look pensive in the evenings, hands itching for your pencils, your paints.

He never asks whether or not the child might be his, which is just as well--because you have no idea.

The robin comes back only once, which dispels your fantastical notions that perhaps it’s been Robin in disguise all along. That would be ridiculous, of course. Just as ridiculous as the notion that you were some carefree unmarried thing, free to dance about with a stranger in the woods. Just as ridiculous as the notion that you’re going to die in the spring.

“Please?”

Thomas frowns. You haven’t been allowed past the garden in several weeks. It was now nearing the end of spring, your dreaded season, and something deep inside you was going mad with the need to see something past the confines of your marital home.

“Just to the end of the path and back.” You sigh and stretch your legs, lifting up your skirts to show him your swollen ankles. “It will be good for my legs. And fresh air is good for the baby, or so your mother says.”

Thomas can be stern. He has a right to be, you assure yourself, all things considered. But he is not terribly cruel. And so he sighs and tells you yes, but only to the end of the path, and don’t stop for strangers, and come right home.

And you intend to obey him like a dutiful spouse. You really do.

It’s just… when you get to the end of the path, near the fork in the road…

There is the bleating of the lamb.

The smell of bluebells, richer than before.

The twitch of your hand, aching for a brush and paints.

And Robin, leaning up against a tree, a flower rolling in between his teeth like a wayward goat.

He catches your eye, and pushes himself off the tree. His grin is as easy as it was the day you met him and the many days in between.

What do you say in situations like these? Your heart thuds, but offers no answer. Your stomach twists, but says nothing at all.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, head downcast. “I haven’t been able to come.”

“Hm?” You glance up, and he quirks his head. Like a bird. “It hasn’t been that long.”

It’s been weeks, and there’s a stinging in your chest. You’re one of many, most certainly. Or he does have a wife at home and he’s been busy with her and you’re a silly, stupid fling that he’s forgotten about. Heat rushes to your cheek faster than it should--damned pregnancy.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes wide and his smile chipper. “I said something stupid, didn’t I? I don’t have a head for time.” He sighs, and the soft, languid sound of it goes a long way towards soothing your hurt.

Then he finally looks down at the swell of your stomach and his eyes get wide, the crisp blue of them seeming to glitter as he

“I see…”

He walks a few paces back to the tree and plops down, his back against the bark. You hesitate. You should go home. Someone will see you. More than that, you said you’d go back. You can’t even keep your word, how are you ever going to raise a child?

But you take one step and then another, and Robin reaches out and helps you lower yourself to the ground.

The silence between you feels uncomfortable. But apparently Robin feels nothing of the sort, because all he does is stretch out his legs and pull out his bag (and God, you swear, where did it come from today?) to retrieve paints and easels and your fingers practically shake as he hands them to you.

You talk while you paint, but there is nothing light about your conversation this afternoon. Just as there is nothing light about your painting. It is bluebells, yes. But not a pretty field of them buzzing with bees and floating dandelion seeds and spring sun. Instead it is dark and overcast, the soggy aftermath of a storm.

“I want it on my terms,” you say, and your frown is so set that your teeth begin to ache. Robin hums, and your brush drags down over the canvas, agitated. He doesn’t understand. He can’t. He’s…

Robin watches you paint, and then pulls up a long blade of grass and begins to chew on it.

“Tell me, then.” As if it’s the easiest thing in the world to say to anyone. Much less him, in your current state.

“Thomas told me this morning,” you begin, laying it out with a simmering anger. “That perhaps I can paint again when we’re done having children. When they’re grown. When it will be… appropriate.” The word drips from your mouth like poison.

How often have you heard that damned word in this world? It’s not appropriate to tell people that you see green people in the woods. It’s not appropriate to tell your mother that you met a fairy and she was very nice, and gave you a flower to put under your bed when you slept. It’s not appropriate to mention at breakfast that the flower was magic and it told you your future, that you were going to die in the spring and that was that.

You don’t notice that you’ve stopped painting until Robin’s hand is on yours. When you glance at him, he looks a little serious, and it’s so unlike him that the brush slides from your fingers so that they can intertwine with his own.

“Tell me,” he says. “About the secret in your pocket.”

Your throat constricts. “I don’t have a secret… in my pocket or otherwise.” You feel heavy, suddenly. Because of your skirts and your child and your life.

“I was your secret for a while, wasn’t I?” He taps your nose, a gesture that might have made you giggle a few weeks ago, but now only makes you frustrated. He’s never serious enough, when you need him to be. “You can tell me.” He quirks his head--the bird--and adds, lightly. “I already know, but I’d rather you tell me.”

And… you do.

You tell him about the woods and things you weren’t supposed to see, and your dream about your death that has followed you ever since. You tell him about the way people looked at you until you stopped talking about it at all. You tell him about Thomas’ mother slapping you and the baby growing inside you and the fear that you will die before it is born or die before it is old or die before you’re ever, ever allowed to paint again.

When you’re done, he laughs. He throws back his head and laughs, and it hurts and confuses and tears are blinked away as you try to muster up what to say to him.

The blade of grass gets curled up in his mouth, and he blows on it--a whistle.

“It’s easy. Just don’t get any older.”

It was your turn to laugh. A short, bitter thing.

“Everyone grows old.”

They do, don’t they? Growing old has been a part of you since childhood. Eggs to chicks to hens to table. Watching your grandfather go from lifting you up high to sitting in a chair to lying on a table, his body looking waxy and stiff as everyone wept around you and the room smelled funny.

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. As if the very idea was ridiculous.

“You don’t have to do what they want. Grow old--or don’t. Be a painter--or don’t.”

Your fingers brush over the unfinished canvas in front of you.

“Even if I could stay young forever--and I can’t. I… I can’t be a painter when my husband won’t buy me paints.” You frown, which only deepens as you speak. “Or when I’m about to have a child, who will need me to nurse it and care for it, who will pull on my skirts when it learns to walk, who will need to be wiped and washed and taught. And soon enough I’ll be just like Thomas’ mother, and I’ll nag my own daughter-in-law and maybe I’ll slap her when she displeases me. And then my children will be grown but I’ll be old and I won’t be able to hold a brush even if I wanted to.” You take a breath. “And that’s assuming I don’t die well before then, in a spring just like this, and everyone else moves on after me because that’s just what you do when people die.”

He shakes off your words like morning dew. Unimportant, silly things.

“You made a wish.” He picks a bluebell and twirls the stem in his fingers. “You dreamt of bluebells and you got the first wish of spring, and it will come true.”

There’s a pang of stinging irritation in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed. It feels like no time at all has passed between you and all the time in the world at the same time.

“Robin.” There’s patience in your voice, and something sterner that reminds you of Thomas’ mother. “Wishes aren’t real. Not like that.” You can’t just wish yourself to never grow old or be a painter or do whatever it is you want in this practical, limited place called life.

His smile softens, sweetly. You’re reminded of the kiss with honey between his teeth.

“You had a dream that you would die in spring, and that is real. But you don’t trust in wishes?”

His fingers tighten over yours. Just enough for you to notice. And then they loosen and he’s splaying his hand out, palm up. “Come with me, then. I’ll make your wish come true.”

And he doesn't say it soft and honeyed and low, a temptation. He says it with sureness--with a grin on his face, with the gold in his hair shimmering in the afternoon light, with the blueness of flowers in his eyes.

“It could always be like this,” he says, looking out towards the fence across the way. “If you come with me.” The stubborn little lamb toddles after its mother and there are bluebells surrounding you and Robin at your side.

And a baby in your belly.

“What about my baby?” You blurt out the words, a hand resting on your stomach.

He shrugs, and far away, the lamb bleats. You realize that he never asked if it was his child. Like Thomas, he says nothing of it. It's a baby in your belly and that is that, or so it seems.

“Keep it if you want to. Or we can give it away, if you feel bad.”

You don’t ask to whom you’ll be giving it away, but the way he says it unnerves you, untethers you just a little.

You don’t think he’s talking about leaving the child with an orphanage or on the doorstep of a kindly neighbor. Beads of sweat stick to your back and you think of the stones you used to see in the woods as a child. Large, smooth paved stones. Someone (your grandmother? A neighbor? A whispering thing that dripped words in your ear while you slept?) told you that women left babies there to be taken by fairies and spirits and anything else that would have them.

Green men didn’t always look green, and just where did Robin get his bag and his paints and his bluebells?

You don’t bother asking him what he meant. You’re not sure, really, that he’d tell you.

The thought of not keeping your child never actually registered before today. But then, running away with Robin never registered until this moment either.

What do you want? You stare at Robin’s outstretched palm and look at your own naked one. The memory of the stinking rich lifeblood on it comes to mind, as does the sight of your friend’s round bellies, the screams and sweat of the birthing rooms you attended with your mother.

Is that what you want? A child? That life? The uncertainty of wondering when when when will I die?

There’s a lurch in your chest and you want to leave before it becomes too much. You stand, wobbling, refusing Robin’s hand and starting down the path without another word.

He yells after you, jovial, unconcerned.

“Tomorrow! It has to be tomorrow!”

On the way home, your hand plucks the last of the blooming spring flowers so that you can explain your long absence in front of what you’re sure will be frowning, tutting faces.

But when you stride frantically in, skin flushed and hand clutching a bouquet, everyone stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. You were gone less than a half hour--the time it normally takes to walk up the path and back.

That night, your bed feels rock hard. Or maybe it’s just your nerves that keep you afloat, refusing to let you sink into the mattress as you’d like to do.

Your hand rests on your stomach and Thomas isn’t in bed yet, late nights doing work to make more money to build you an attachment so that you aren’t sharing the same space as his mother forever, and you both love and hate that he’s not here.

If he was here, you might not have the luxury of thinking about anything at all.

But you do, and the thoughts race inside your head, bouncing to and fro like frantic children.

Do you go with Robin? Is Robin a human? Do you keep the baby? Can you leave Thomas? Is it better to live here and die here or go somewhere else and perhaps, be there forever?

There is no bird in your window that night, but you swear you smell the delicate scent of bluebells. Fresh and green and bitter, right under your nose.

Thomas lets you walk to the end of the path again, because you complain about your swelling legs and he thinks getting out of the house is better for your increasingly isolated mind.

And so, here you stand at the fork in the road.

You could turn around and walk home. Back to your husband and his mother and the new life that awaits there. You would let your mother-in-law tut over you and tell you the best way to nurse and feed and how long to wait after birth to conceive another. You would let Thomas guide you and hold you and look at you with stern pity when you wanted nothing more than to paint. You would live there and die there, and who knows when that would be? Could you stand the agony of each spring, every shifting season, promising life for others and death for you? Could you stand never picking up your paints again?

You could walk towards the farm. To the lamb and to Robin, to a beginning that might not have an end at all. You could see if Robin’s skin would peel back green or if he knew where to leave your child so that it could have a good life (but would it?) and ask him if he meant it, when he said you never grow old.

What life do you choose? Which one could be called a life at all? Both? Neither?

Take a step back. Take a step forward.

Stop keeping secrets in your pocket and splay them out on the table and make a choice.

Make a damned choice.

But you don’t get to make one, after all.

Instead, a familiar hand grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, and you stumble over bluebells that don’t crumple down even when you trample on them.

“Robin--”

He’s there, smiling and holding onto you, and behind him is a wild field of bluebells that are so thick and fragrant it’s as if you walked into a maze of them. You spin around, his wrist still holding your own, but the path is gone. That world is gone, lost and brushed over with this hazy spring afternoon.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your nose. He smells like flowers and honey and something bitter underneath that has perhaps always been there, covered with the scent of paints and lamb's blood and your own uncertainty.

“Well?” His grin is as vivacious as ever, and his chestnut hair seems to shine more deeply here, glimmering with golden hues that beg to be run through with your fingers.

In his eyes is the lamb, the roundness of your belly, the deep hue of the bluebells in your dream and the paint that stained your fingers. Were his eyes always so rich? Or did you fill them with your conversations and your laughter, your kisses and your touches? Just as he filled you with dreams and smiles and an airiness you'd long since plastered over.

“Come on!”

He pulls you along, laughing and you don’t know where you’re going. Whether you will live forever or ever paint again or what it will be like. You only know the three of you will start there together, whether you wanted it or not.

You were always, in the end, going to die in the spring.

#yandere #yandere oc #seasonal spirit #afterwitch writes #my bb!!!#wahh I can't believe he's done and the series is rounded out #how funny that one person being like hey you should do other seasons #led me to do this ;asdfsd #seasonal spirits #folklore writing #original stuffs

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